Tamsin Beech Ch. 03: Scunthorpe

Ross grinned, slowly shaking his head.

"Wh-what's so funny?"

"I am the fucking resistance."

PART TWO: TAMSIN

"Ostanovis, gde vy nakhodites. Gde vashi dokumenty?"

The Coalition APC was completely blocking the road. To either side, a barricade of burnt out vehicles and rubble would make bypassing the checkpoint quickly almost impossible. And if he so much as attempted it, he guessed they'd open fire.

One of the armoured carrier's crew raised an oil lantern while three others covered him with their weapons. Batteries for electric torches no longer existed so more primitive methods of lighting were making a come back. Leonid slowed his stolen motorcycle to a stop, leaving the engine idling. This was the most straightforward route south out of the Red Zone to Scarborough, and finding an alternative route might mean a detour of many miles.

"Gde vashi dokumenty?" repeated the guard, more forcefully. A hint of suspicion was beginning to creep across his scowling features. Travellers didn't usually have to be asked twice for their documents.

"Izvinite tovarishch. U menya zdesʹ gde - to yestʹ avtorizatsiya ..." Leonid smiled reassuringly as he stepped closer, reaching into the tunic of his stolen scout's uniform for imaginary travel documents.

"Kholodnaya noch, chtoby bytʹ na doroge," laughed the guard, his breath clouding as he spoke.

Leonid's arm blurred as he plunged his knife into the man's eye, simultaneously snatching the oil lantern away with his free hand. In the second that it took the APC's crew to react he'd launched it at the side of their vehicle.

The lantern exploded in an orange fireball, engulfing the armoured side of the carrier and the unfortunate soldier manning its heavy machine gun with flaming oil. Without pausing for even a moment, Leonid somersaulted off the road into a ditch, drawing his stolen Kalashnikov as 7.62mm rounds thocked into the road surface behind him.

TAKATAKATAK!

"Denisovich! Eto on. Eto predatel!" shouted one of the surviving guards as his comrade on the carrier's turret shrieked feebly one final time and slumped sideways, still ablaze.

Shit, they'd recognised him. Two against one. Leonid reasoned that if he gave the surviving guards the seconds they needed to spread out and flank him, he'd be unable to take them both. One or the other would eventually put a bullet in his back.

"U menya net vremeni na eto!" he shouted as he suddenly rose from cover and strafed the road at leg height. Both soldiers crumpled to the ground as a hail of bullets ripped through their legs.

By the fitful light of the burning APC, Leonid swiftly executed one of the survivors. The single gunshot echoing across the landscape. He wouldn't be able to watch them both while he was getting answers.

"Do you know about the girl?" he demanded of the last remaining guard, kicking the man's weapon out of reach.

"What girl?" the wounded soldier grimaced, clutching the gaping bullet wound in his knee.

"The Zhakvatchikov girl. Redhead," Leonid snarled, "from the island."

The soldier's eyes widened, almost comically as his brain connected two pieces of the puzzle. The girl they'd caught stowed away on board the supply truck, "Z-zhakvatchikov? Oh f-fuck, no! W-we had no idea!"

Leonid frowned. How could they not have known who she was? "Where is she?"

The soldier looked so terrified he began to tremble. Though Leonid supposed that might be due to the shock of being shot, "Scarborough. Sh-she was taken to Scarborough. The boy was sent to the steelworks."

"Are you lying to me?"

The soldier raised a hand placatingly, then quickly clamped it back around his leg as blood spurted from the ruined joint, "No. On my life. B-but ... Tamsin Zhakvatchikov. W-we had ... no idea it was her. B-believe me. I'll ... I'll be executed for this."

"Yes," Leonid nodded, "you will."

He was already turning away as he shot the soldier through the head. It was doubtful the man would survive much longer out here on the edge of the Red Zone all alone anyway, but it was better to be safe than sorry. No witnesses.

The APC and bodies provided Leonid with six magazines of ammunition, a crossbow, food and filtered water that might last him a few days. He snatched the dead soldiers' ID papers too. In dim light he might just get away with using them but that approach was hardly his style.

The Zhakvatchikov girl. Tamsin. Daughter of Merida. Now he knew exactly where to find her. He guessed her traveling companion, whoever he was would soon no longer be an issue. Scunthorpe steelworks wasn't a place where slaves died of old age.

. . .

Tamsin Beech stood silently in the lobby of Scarborough's Grand Hotel feeling miserable. She had never felt so utterly alone in her life. Two guards watched dispassionately from either side of the main door preventing her escape. The Coalition NCO who'd paid the supply truck's driver for bringing her had disappeared up a wide flight of stairs, muttering about someone called Gibson.

The entire building stank of decay. Its grandeur and years of decadence left to rot for the want and need of anyone who actually cared enough to maintain it properly. The carpets were threadbare from the comings and goings of Coalition officers who frequented the premises on their down time. The paint and plasterwork chipped and scored, in some places by bullets and in others by shrapnel from back when the townsfolk had attempted to defend against these new invaders from the east.

Everyone had considered the rogue asteroid Thanatos to be the worst that could befall them. They'd been wrong. Even the self styled ex-convict Jack Aubrey with access to a system of orbital defence satellites hadn't struck terror into the hearts of the locals so intensely as the death squads and brutality the Coalition forces brought with them.

Where the fuck had they taken Craster, Tamsin wondered. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses came from a doorway off to her right. But without taking a few paces in that direction to investigate, Tamsin could see nothing. Male voices speaking in strongly accented Russian drowned out more quietly spoken local accents. Women.

From a doorway behind the deserted reception desk, she caught the soft rasp of indrawn breath and the rustling of clothes. Tamsin glanced at the guards. They hadn't moved. There was no-one else to stop her and wherever this was that they'd brought her cried out to be explored.

Was this just another luxurious prison? Like Lindisfarne? Tamsin edged nearer to the reception desk, trying to peer through into the room beyond. An office, or a store room. She caught her breath as the lamplight shone on two figures coupled together, oblivious.

A burly Coalition soldier had caught a petite blonde girl, who Tamsin guessed to be roughly her age, up in his arms, supporting her so that her shoulders rested back against the wall. While she, her red dress rucked up around her waist, had wrapped her legs tightly round his hips, locking her ankles together.

The soldier thrust into her eagerly, his mouth nuzzling at her generous breasts, while she flung her head back and groaned in mock delight. Tamsin gasped and felt her cheeks redden as she glimpsed the man's glistening cock, his heavy balls bouncing up and down with the exertion.

"I see you're wasting no time discovering exactly what goes on here."

Tamsin spun around, her heart racing. The Coalition NCO had returned, bringing with him a distinctly average looking civilian man and an imposing looking middle aged woman. Everything about the man was nondescript, from the colour of his ill fitting suit to his height and the shape of his face. The man was boring. Tamsin guessed that minutes after this meeting was over she'd have completely forgotten what he looked like. His pale eyes roved up and down her hungrily, appraising each and every angle and curve of her body.

"I'm Gibson, the ... manager, of this establishment. From now on you belong to me."

The woman stepped closer. She was tall, with piercing blue eyes and jet black hair scraped back into a long ponytail. Handsome rather than pretty and dressed practically in jeans and a patched plaid shirt, "Redhead," she commented, twirling a lock of Tamsin's hair around a finger, "and it looks natural too. She'll be a popular addition, this one. I'd be inclined to forego the branding."

Gibson nodded slowly, "You could be right. Keep her unmarked, just like the real thing," he peered intently at Tamsin. In the office behind the reception desk, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and the grunts and moans rose to a crescendo. Tamsin blushed.

"Have we met before?" Gibson asked suddenly.

"Wh-what?" Tamsin stammered. Wherever the man was from, it wasn't Northumberland. He had an unusual accent. From somewhere in the south perhaps?

Gibson leaned in close. Close enough for Tamsin to be able to count the thick grey hairs sprouting from his nostrils, the blocked pores on his oily skin, "You remind me of someone else."

"There's an empty suite on the sixth floor," interrupted the woman, "the blonde twins we had in there overdosed last week if you remember. I think this little beauty deserves more than a shared room with other girls, don't you?"

Gibson nodded, "To reinforce the illusion you mean. Make the punters think she's something special?"

Illusion? What was the man talking about, Tamsin wondered.

The woman suddenly cupped a hand around Tamsin's breast, "What size are you?"

Tamsin was so shocked by the intrusion she could barely bring herself to respond, "Uh ... I d-don't really know ..."

The woman grinned, leaning in so close that for an instant Tamsin was convinced she was about to kiss her, "No matter. We'll get you suitably attired in the morning, once you're settled in. Do you have a name?"

Tamsin didn't know what made her lie. She was a fugitive certainly, but surely this far south these people wouldn't be aware of General Volk's plaything escaping. She blurted out the first name that came into her head, "L-lupita. My name's Lupita."

"Unusual name ..." Gibson wordlessly watched the huge Coalition officer emerge from the reception area, buttoning up his fly with a satisfied grin, "get Lupita up to her rooms, Kate. In the morning she'll be dressed more appropriately. We'll send out word that we have a new redhead on our books and tomorrow night ... she'll start work."

"Wait," Tamsin called as Gibson turned to leave, "what work? What is this place?"

A Coalition officer strolled past them and headed for the stairs, a scantily clad woman on each arm. Both bore an angry red brand on one cheek. Tamsin was no expert but it appeared to be a single letter from the Russians' alphabet. Shlyukha. The women appeared uneasy, jittery, their smiles and laughter fake.

Gibson raised an eyebrow and shared a look with the woman Kate, before turning back to Tamsin, "Naive as well. You WILL be popular. Or at least until your spirit's broken. Oh, and forget the name Lupita. If that even is your name. Which I doubt. From now on you go by the name of ... Merida."

. . .

"Why are you telling me all this?" Craster asked.

In the fitful glare from the steelworks, Ross studied the scrawny slave for long moments. It was a good question. Why was he confessing to this complete stranger about being the leader of a resistance cell? "Because if what you've told me is true, it's time I made my move. My daughter is alive. If it turns out you're actually a Coalition spy sent here to infiltrate, then so be it. I've spent four fucking years trying to make a difference. All the while wondering if I'll ever see my wife and daughter again. I'm tired of it. Sick and fucking tired."

"But ... the resistance. It's real?"

Ross gave Craster a warning look as a Coalition sentry ambled past, watching them. The majority of slaves were either in the mess hall or on their way to the night shift, so their presence in one of the steelworks' weed choked car parks was somewhat conspicuous.

"I've just said so haven't I?" Ross snapped, "I'm staying here on the inside as foreman to keep an eye on the goons. I'm not much use any more in a fight with only one fucking arm. But what little I learn about troop movements or supply convoys I feed to my people on the outside."

"You have contacts that go outside the complex?"

Ross tapped the side of his nose, "I've said enough. More than enough, and you ask too many questions ... now tell me about my daughter."

Craster hesitated. His enduring memory of Tamsin was of her kneeling in front of him sucking his cock. He had to admit that in the time he'd spent with her as her whipping boy, he'd learnt virtually nothing about the girl, "She's pretty. The castle staff prepared all the best food for her. She had like a personal trainer to keep her fit ..."

"No, no," Ross interrupted, "tell me about her. What's she like as a person?"

Craster gazed over Ross's shoulder for long seconds before he responded, "She's headstrong ... and brave. No. More than that. Fearless ... though she doesn't realise it yet."

Ross nodded, "That sounds like Tamz alright. Has she told you anything about her mother and me?"

Craster shook his head, "No. Listen, why is her surname Zhakvatchikov? Is that some kinda joke?"

"Yeah," Ross replied, "not a very fucking funny one as it happens. Look ... it'll take some organising ... but, do you want to get out of this place and help me rescue her?"

. . .

The suite of rooms Tamsin was shown to may have once been luxurious. One of the Grand Hotel's more expensive rooms with a view out over the North Sea and the ruined town of Scarborough itself. But after thirty five years of neglect, the peeling wallpaper was faded, the paintwork scuffed and scratched and a lingering odour of damp oozed from every corner.

A double bedroom, a small sitting room made cheerful with the addition of dozens of potted plants, and an ensuite bathroom. More space than she'd ever had on Lindisfarne. Though she noticed the light came from candles and the taps weren't plumbed in. Hot water for a bath would have to be carried laboriously up the stairs from wherever it could be heated up. The kitchens she guessed.

Once the woman Kate had left, Tamsin curled up on the lumpy mattress fully clothed. Noises came from the other rooms. Sighs and animalistic grunts, a rhythmic knocking that increased in tempo then abruptly stopped. Though still a virgin Tamsin was no longer completely naive to the ways of the world. There could be only one explanation as to why so many people in the building seemed to be having sex.

Was that why they'd brought her here? She felt an icy finger trail down the length of her spine as realisation dawned. But it didn't explain why Gibson had insisted she use her mother's name? Did he actually know her mother?

Those questions would have to wait until the morning. With the sound of a key turning in the ancient panelled door, Kate had locked her in. Even if Tamsin hadn't been on the sixth floor, the cracked sash windows were nailed shut and barred. There would be no easy escape from here as there had been from Lindisfarne.

Despite her fear, Tamsin slept. She was awoken at dawn by the orangey pink glow of the sunrise shining on her face through the condensation on the filthy glass. As she roused herself, she heard the door being unlocked and moments later a plain looking woman with pale skin and hair the colour of mud carried in a tray laden with breakfast. She placed it on Tamsin's small table and wordlessly left.

"W-wait!" Tamsin called urgently. But the door was once again secured and she was left alone with her thoughts.

Bacon, eggs, fried green tomatoes, toast and a pot of what smelt remarkably like fresh coffee. Tamsin took a sip. It was. Where did the Coalition get these things from? Were they imported from some other country they'd conquered and enslaved or had they simply discovered some huge pre-Thanatos stash.

Tamsin tucked in. During their escape, neither she nor Craster had eaten for an entire day and she was famished. She resolved to ask about the youth's fate at the earliest opportunity.

. . .

The following morning Craster was put to work. A meteorite had years before slammed into the edge of the steelworks complex, sending a tangle of mangled rails and wrecked rolling stock crashing into the side of one of the blast furnaces. Using oxyacetylene cutters and brute force it would all have to be moved before the furnace could be repaired.

Craster thought through what the foreman Ross Beech had told him the previous evening, as with another slave he manhandled scorched railway sleepers into a neat stack.

He guessed that Tamsin's father was usually a careful man. But faced with the news that his daughter was alive and well after all this time, he'd thrown caution to the wind and revealed his secret. Craster hoped that such foolhardiness would be rewarded.

A disused drainage tunnel led under the perimeter fence, under the cracked tarmac of Brigg Road outside to scrubland a quarter of a mile away. Navigating it would entail evading the sentries and crawling through elbow deep muck in total darkness. Ross Beech had explained all that. But escaping the complex and evading the Coalition patrols would be the easy part. If they were to stand any chance whatsoever of getting to Tamsin, they needed a transport to get them north across the Humber Bridge to Scarborough.

One of the foreman's most trusted runners had left at dawn through the tunnel. All Craster could do now was wait.

. . .

More servants, each bearing the brand which appeared to be the norm, visited Tamsin's room through the course of the day. Bringing her hot water to wash in, a healthy lunch of salad with strips of chicken coated in some unfamiliar spice, and finally towards the end of the afternoon a neatly folded pile of clothes.

Underwear, but unlike any underwear Tamsin had ever seen before. Thin, lacy scraps of material that barely covered what they were intended to cover and would be totally impractical. Shoes, the like of which she'd only ever worn to one of General Volk's receptions. And a figure hugging sequined dress in a shimmering dark green that barely covered her thighs.

None of the servants uttered a word. Tamsin offered thanks and attempted to engage them in conversation. But it was no use. The sour faced woman who delivered the clothes indicating that she should change was the only acknowledgement any of them gave her.

Tamsin spent the day gazing out of the window at the activity in the surrounding streets. And wondering about the sounds from the other rooms. Who were the other women? Were any of them here willingly? She knew about sex obviously. On a few occasions she'd even heard her parents at it in the next room late at night. It had made her feel awkward but strangely secure at the same time, knowing that her parents still had that bond of intimacy.

But theirs had been a loving relationship. What went on in this place would be different, based on subjugation and control. On the Coalition taking anything it wanted from the locals, usually by force. As the hours wore on Tamsin grew more and more anxious.

. . .

From his hiding place in the overgrown grounds of Scarborough's old castle, Leonid Denisovich watched the town. The harbour with its Coalition patrol boats being resupplied and fuelled. The broad sweep of the beach curving away to the south littered with debris from some past storm. And in the distance, the baroque styled Grand Hotel. If Tamsin Zhakvatchikov had indeed been brought here the hotel was the only place she could possibly be.

Volk had turned the place into nothing more than a high class brothel. For high ranking Coalition officials who'd spent too long away from their wives and needed some female companionship. Or as a reward for junior officers who'd excelled in spreading the Coalition's influence. Volk's men scoured the surrounding area, kidnapping local women in return for a hefty bounty. Leonid had seen some horrible sights in his thirty five years but even he had realised that the place was evil.